Chapter Text
“We should fuck.” Satoru drops onto the loveseat across from Suguru, who’s focused on something that’s not Satoru (a textbook from one of his law classes), and that’s clearly unacceptable.
Suguru looks up at him blankly, and without missing a beat, replies, “We should not.”
Satoru frowns, hardly undeterred. “Why?”
“Well,” Suguru grins at him, a bit coy. “Why do you think, Satoru?”
Satoru stands up, partly in mock offense. “Shut up. I could take it. I told you that you don’t have to be so fucking careful with me. It’s not like I’m saving myself for marriage or some shit—What’s the hold-up?”
Suguru blinks at him. “You cried last time and I didn’t even touch you.”
Well, then. There’s nothing Satoru could say to that. He pouts. His pride won’t let him back down, though—he knows what he wants, so he’ll fucking get what he wants, dammit.
“I’m telling you, I can take it,” Satoru claims, ignoring how petulant he probably sounds. “It’s not like I’m a chick or anything.”
Suguru nods at him dryly. “Right.”
Something crosses Satoru’s mind and he sits down, frowning genuinely this time. He hates feeling insecure. Mostly because he never knew insecurity before he met Suguru. Insecurity as an emotion serves no purpose, it’s pointless and endlessly irrational. He drags his fingernails against the sofa cushion. “Do you—not want me like that?”
Suguru’s sly expression immediately collapses and is replaced with one of concern and resolution. “No. Don’t say that. I want you always, Satoru. All the time. You know I do.”
Satoru exhales, tension he didn’t even realize was there seeping out of him.
“You say you want me. Then have me.”
“You know it’s not as simple as that,” Suguru shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “You know that’s not something you can handle right now.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t handle.”
As serious as ever, he repeats, “I won’t risk hurting you. I’m never going to risk hurting you like that.”
And fucking hell, what can Satoru say to something so earnest?
“How about this,” Suguru pipes up again, a new mischief in his eyes. “We'll go at my pace. We’ll see how much you can take, then we can revisit this, okay?”
Suguru sounds like a teacher making a compromise with a stubborn kindergartener. Satoru hates him. He grunts and stomps away, annoyed. “Whatever.”
♠♠♠
It is not whatever. It is so not fine, whatever.
“Suguru,” Satoru gasps, pressing his head back into the mattress until the pressure starts to ache at his crown. His entire body is on fire, despite being surrounded by soft, cool sheets, and he feels his sanity slipping further and further out of his grip. Not that he’s trying particularly hard to hold on.
All of his senses are being kept on edge as a relentless mouth drags its way down his throat, painting bruises that Satoru prays will be there tomorrow when he wakes up.
And it should feel pathetic, being this worked up and still mostly clothed in a loose shirt and boxers, nothing more than relatively innocent touches—Suguru’s hand on his hip, gripping his waist, fingers spread and pushing down on his abdomen—but Satoru can’t fucking think enough to comprehend how debauched he must look. He can’t think at all.
There’s a nagging, incessant voice in his head telling him to beg for more, to be louder, needier—anything that would keep Suguru’s body on his.
God, he would resort to begging if Suguru asked. He would, so quickly, just to see Suguru’s reaction. To see his muscles tense, his eyes darken to black, the scorching look of desire that somehow burns just as much as his touch does. He would, but then he would only prove Suguru’s point—that he can’t handle anything at all.
But he’s close to giving up anyway because he suspects Suguru might know already just how far gone he is. And even if Satoru begged, it wouldn’t get him what he wanted.
His dick is so hard it fucking hurts like hell, and he desperately tries to close his legs to get some friction, any friction, any contact, but Suguru’s firm body between his legs prevents him from acquiring the luxury.
His entire body prickles and burns, and his entire lower half aches.
Satoru rolls his body up to meet Suguru’s and is rewarded with a grunt as Suguru’s grip on his waist tightens, sending a wave of pure sensation crashing through him like a rock creating ripples in the water. God, it really is like that—Suguru plays his body like a game; like he’s skipping rocks across a pond, like he’s—
Satoru’s thoughts fizzle out to pink noise again.
Suguru runs his tongue back over a bruise he created minutes ago, saliva hot and sticky, and noises pour from Satoru’s through quicker than he can gather the coherence to muffle them. His fingers tangle in Suguru’s shirt, and he moans high and weak before he can swallow the sound.
He feels Suguru smirk slightly against his skin. Before he can say something, anything to get him to wait, Suguru’s closing his mouth around the bruise and biting down, and Satoru doesn’t quite scream, but it’s a close synonym, his entire body arching with it. It hurts, it hurts and Satoru feels like he’s gotten the air knocked out of him, but fuck, it’s good, it’s so good ; tears start welling up in his eyes and he desperately blinks them away, ignoring the way his cock throbs in his boxers. The noise scrapes his throat raw, leaving behind a dull sting that’s not all unpleasant. He’s shaking, quivering down to his bones, and his breathing comes out in stuttered, fast puffs of air.
He can feel his pulse thundering in his entire body—he thinks his heart might be vibrating in his ribcage.
Every muscle in his body pulls painfully tight before he falls completely limp against the sheets as Suguru replaces his teeth with his lips, sucking lightly. Satoru feels like a jellyfish, a floating, squishy glob of nothing.
Suguru pulls away from the inflamed spot on his throat, pressing a light kiss against the bruise, an apology. His hand begins to stroke Satoru’s side underneath his shirt and Satoru fights to not squirm deplorably against the mattress.
“Feeling alright?” Suguru’s voice is so fucking soft, so soft compared to the buzz in his ears and the scorching, scalding heat enveloping his skin—so soft that it makes Satoru feel even more fragile, and he needs Suguru to stop, stop talking to him like that, because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to hold off crying for much longer.
Satoru attempts a soft noise of affirmation. Suguru sighs fondly at him, leaning his weight against him and nosing at his collarbone. “Words, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” Satoru’s voice breaks, and it’s so noticeable because his tone is so, so weak. He’s so weak—for the way Suguru presses butterfly kisses along atop his clavicles calls him sweetheart. “Fucking—peachy. I’m fine.”
Suguru readjusts the position of his knees where they sink into the mattress, and fuck, Satoru knows it’s on purpose because Suguru shifts back to sit on his heels, taking Satoru by the backs of his knees and pulling him down the bed until Suguru’s thighs rest underneath Satoru’s. The adjustment spreads Satoru’s thighs impossibly farther apart. Knees hooked over Suguru’s thighs, he’s being bared open, suddenly more vulnerable than he’s ever been.
“Blushing so much, baby,” Suguru presses his thumbs into the soft flesh of Satoru’s inner thighs, and Satoru yelps, his whole body jolting. “Feeling embarrassed?”
He gasps, subconsciously closing his legs, only to meet the strong, hard lines of Suguru’s torso, stopping him from hiding.
Presented like this, Satoru flushes when he realizes how obvious his erection is, but glancing down, he sees that Suguru isn’t faring much better, if at all. Aside from the obvious tent in his black sweatpants, Suguru looks quite out of breath himself, almost unfairly attractive with a soft glow in his face, chest heaving, eyes dark and trained on Satoru—Suguru calls him ethereal, but he thinks Suguru could stand amongst the Greek gods.
“Suguru, wait—this position,”
Suguru hushes him. “I’ve got you. Relax.”
He grinds up against Satoru and Satoru’s thighs tremble in shame, repeatedly trying to slam closed despite the clear obstacle.
“You’re burning,” Suguru murmurs.
He just whines, “Please,” because where they stand, Satoru hardly remembers what his own name is.
Because where they are right now, Satoru is wholly, completely, entirely at Suguru’s mercy. And it scares him some, but he means it when he says he trusts Suguru. It’s all he can do to fall pliant to Suguru’s touch, because God, this is embarrassing, this is so embarrassing, but Suguru is the only person who would ever get to see him like this.
“Please what?”
Satoru takes it back—Suguru isn’t gentle in the slightest. He’s mean, he’s so fucking mean, even when he’s gentle he’s mean, because he knows, he knows Satoru has fallen off the cliff of rational thought, and he knows he’s too worked up to speak, but he still leans down and whispers in Satoru’s ear, telling him to ask for what he wants.
Satoru’s tongue is heavy like lead, his mouth pooling with saliva. He wants Suguru to kiss him again, to press down on his tongue and break him to pieces.
Satoru’s voice chokes up with held-back tears, “I hate you.”
Suguru’s eyes twinkle with adoration, and Satoru thinks he’s dissolving.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he rubs one of Satoru’s quivering thighs affectionately. And the worst part is that he does sound sorry. “I just need words, okay? I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
Satoru can’t help but whimper. “Suguru, touch me, before I fucking kill you, please,”
“Okay,” Suguru exhales slowly, holding onto composure. With his hands, he maps the contours of Satoru’s body like a cartographer finding the ocean. “Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”
It’s already too much, Satoru thinks. Everything’s too much with you.
Suguru’s hands finally (finally) reach the waistband of his boxers, slipping a finger underneath the band, sliding the fabric lower, lower, lower.
Satoru didn’t think the drag of fabric on his skin could be hot, but here he is.
Suguru finally reaches a hand down and wraps his hand around Satoru. The dry friction makes him throw his head back with a cry, tears quickly welling up in his eyes once again. The first stroke has Satoru thrashing against the sheets, his legs twitching helplessly as they wrap and unwrap themselves from Suguru’s waist. His hips buck ineffectually, and a truly pathetic mewl bubbles in his throat.
Suguru groans, low and predatory. “Fuck, fucking hell, Satoru.”
Normally, Satoru would preen at the praise, but he can’t right now, he can’t do anything, can’t, can’t, can’t—
He’s already at the edge from just being kissed and kissed and teased for so long, and he can’t, and everything is hot like he’s laying in a pool of lava, and Suguru’s hands are too little and too much at the same time and it burns but it doesn’t but it does.
Suguru swipes a thumb over the head of his cock, and Satoru can’t help it, he sobs; tears blur his vision and stream down the sides of his face, wracking his body with earthquake-like shudders.
Like he’s underwater, he can make out the outlines of Suguru’s voice, “Oh, look at you. ”
Satoru writhes against the duvet. God, he might pass out, he thinks he’s going to pass out. He can’t find his voice. There’s no air. Where’s the air? Satoru can barely breathe. It’s so good, it’s too good.
He thinks he can hear himself sobbing louder.
Satoru's vision begins to spot black and white around the edges. Everywhere he shifts there’s heat, and heat, and more endless heat. Hee tries and fails to breathe through loud gasps, and fuck, every stroke of Suguru’s hand on his cock has him begging, crying out from oversensitivity, it's too much, he can’t take it, it hurts and he can't, he can't, he can’t—
He twists and squirms desperately as if his body is deciding whether to stay or escape. Suguru pins and holds him still with one hand on his hip, and he holds him there tightly, making him stay, making him take it, and it’s a reminder—a reminder that here, Suguru could overpower him if he really wanted to. Could hold him down and take and take.
And fuck, Satoru likes it. He’s not going to survive.
“W-Wait, Suguru, I can’t,” he cries, his voice approaching a concerning volume. He’s delirious with pleasure, hazy, he can’t see right, he can’t stop feeling. “Wait—ah! Please, oh my god,”
“It’s all right, baby,” Suguru’s voice rumbles from somewhere above him. “My pretty baby. It’s okay, I got you, you can come.”
Satoru squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “No, I can’t—I, you didn’t, I can’t,”
“You can,” Suguru insists. “You’re doing so well. So fucking sweet and good for me. It’s okay, Satoru. Come.”
And Satoru is gone. His vision whites out, a filthy, weak moan leaving his throat. He shakes apart, and when he comes, it’s hard and violent, muscles locking and jerking, spasming so hard Suguru is forced to grab onto him wherever he can and just hold on to him as come spurts from his dick and lands on his chest, sticky white, lukewarm.
His orgasm comes quickly but ebbs away slowly, and it’s long, it’s so long and Satoru feels like he’s coming for minutes, hours, eternities, and it might hurt, might burn, he can’t tell. Half of his body feels numb. Tears continue to fall freely down his face, and the sounds coming out of him are closer to whimpers and wheezes than anything.
Everything feels fuzzy. The tingling is overwhelming, but not uncomfortable. His back is damp. That’s a bit uncomfortable. Sweat erupts on his skin where it’s pressed against the cloth of the sheets. It’s warm, but still hot, but warm. He vaguely registers fingers gently wiping the tears from his face. Satoru fades away.
When he comes to, Suguru is wiping the mess from Satoru’s chest with a hand towel from their bathroom, his touch careful in soft, sweeping strokes. He makes the most effort not to jostle Satoru. It’s so endearing that Satoru can’t help but smile, until he sees the color of the towel. He grunts protestingly, his voice frail and raw when he speaks, “Those are the fucking new ones, you know.”
Suguru’s eyes fill with something akin to relief as he beams.
“It’s a towel. We have others,” he balls up the (new) towel and throws it haphazardly to the side, undoubtedly to annoy Satoru. “Are you alright?”
“I’m okay,” comes out with a soft, content sigh. He’s so thirsty, but the kitchen is so agonizingly far away. “I just—gonna get, some water.”
He wants to try to sit up, but his limbs feel like jelly. Suguru watches him, worry evident in his eyes. He scans Satoru again, searching for any source of discomfort. “I’ll get it for you. Stay here. Are you sure you’re okay? You scared me for a minute there. I’m sorry—did I hurt you?”
Satoru laughs airily. “Stop looking at me like that. It was good. You didn’t hurt me. I liked it.”
Suguru seems to believe him, some of the tension trickling out of his shoulders after staring at Satoru for a few beats longer. He smiles softly. “Water?”
Satoru nods wearily, looking down at Suguru’s lower half to find he’s wearing a different pair of sweatpants now. He tries to gesture him closer. “Wait I’ll—you didn’t,”
“It’s okay,” Suguru looks away sheepishly, suddenly finding a pencil mark on the bedside table more entertaining. “You should take a breather.”
“What?” Satoru deflates, slightly offended. “No, that’s not fair at all, I can—unless you don’t want to.”
Suguru looks back at him, then down at his crotch, then back, seemingly reading his mind. “What? No—it’s just, I already did—when, you know.”
Satoru’s kiss-swollen lips part in understanding, his eyes widening despite his exhaustion. He grins lazily, suddenly happier than ever. He’s even more endeared. And internally, he preens at the ego boost he just received.
“Just by watching me? You perv.”
Suguru laughs and rewards him with a blinding smile. “I’m making instant ramen for us. D’you want the fire noodles or the beef-flavored ones?”
“Beef-flavored. Be quick.” Satoru pauses. “Hey, d’you think we can level our way up to fucking?”
Suguru doesn’t even turn around. “Please never use the term level up in the context of your sex life again.”
♠♠♠
“Oh shit,” Shoko leans her head into her palm, expression shifting from boredom to ever-so-slightly giving a shit. “Did you finally get laid?”
Satoru stops right before the coffee hits his lips. He lowers the cup and stares blankly at Shoko, perhaps at some vague attempt to make her feel just a hint of shame. Of course, it doesn’t work, because while Satoru takes first place for most shameless, he would argue that Shoko takes the close second. For show, Satoru looks around the coffee shop exaggeratedly to see if anyone heard.
“This is a public space, you know?”
“When has that stopped you from doing anything, ever?”
Satoru rolls his eyes and pointedly doesn’t respond, lifting the coffee cup back to his mouth. Contrary to popular opinion, Satoru did like coffee. Quite a bit—maybe not black coffee, because he’s not a fucking masochist, but who the hell wouldn’t enjoy a good vanilla latte or dark roast with sweet cream? He glances down at Shoko’s steaming cup on the tabletop. Shoko drinks her coffee black. It’s disgusting. Satoru personally has it filed as one of her worst qualities.
“Whatever. Why do you ask?”
Shoko stares at him for a moment, shell-shocked. Then, her lips begin curling into a slow, sinister smile. Satoru feels his blood run cold. “What is it?”
She taps her neck.
Fuck. He had rushed out of the apartment so quickly as to not be late to their weekly coffee date that he didn’t get the chance to glance in the mirror. (The last time Satoru missed a coffee date, Shoko made him take her on a luxury store shopping spree using his wallet. He had gotten several calls from his father that day asking him if his credit card had been stolen.)
Shoko’s smile is almost too big for her face, and he feels compelled to tell her that, but unfortunately, she speaks first. “Well, I mean, Gojo. My dearest. You look like you’ve been fucking mauled.”
Satoru slaps a hand over his neck and immediately cringes at the sting.
Meanwhile, Shoko just whistles lowly. “Damn, never pegged Geto as the possessive type. He went at you like a dog chewing on a bone. Our poor juniors are never gonna be able to look you in the eye again.”
“Shut up.” Satoru glares at her, cheeks pink. He stops. “Wait, how the fuck did you know it was Suguru?”